


We Own It

by voices_of_salt



Series: The Riera Cycle [10]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Actual Fucking Songfic, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Songfic, Songfic Like It's 1999
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 20:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9458588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voices_of_salt/pseuds/voices_of_salt
Summary: Alternate universe one-shot, not part of canonical timeline because this is Fast and Furious Rieras.Your favourite friendly criminal family now drag races cars. Arnau finally gets a chance to meet Mora, as the universe intended. I also have no idea how cars work.This is actually a songfic. I'm not even kidding. This fic can only be enjoyed while listening to this mellifluous song.





	

“Fuck!” Arnau slammed the door of their ride, yanking off his helmet and glaring at the blue and white car. The Blanxarts had won this one. Already, admirers were flocking around the two drivers, pressing drinks into their hands, slapping them on the back, and assuring them that everyone had known they’d win all along.

Mercedes sat in her seat, her knuckles still white on the wheel, though the electric rush that filled her when she drove had long since deserted her. Her brother’s fury burned, incandescent, just beyond the limits of her own sense of self. But for once his emotions seemed distinct from her own. His rage coursed through him like liquid fire, while she could only sit in silence, watching the Blanxarts enjoy their triumph. They’d won by sheer luck and not a few dirty tricks, but that was all part of the race. That was nothing. The part of her that _felt_ the complex variables of burning gasoline, tires on asphalt, and wind over her windshield screamed that her calculations had been wrong. It hadn’t just been that she and Arnau weren’t fast enough: they were. It wasn’t that they weren’t good enough: they were better than good. But they had failed.

Slowly, she released the wheel, kicked open her door, and stepped out of the car. The crowd was carrying Luïsa and Jaume Blanxart away on its shoulders, shouting and cheering. Admirers were still rushing to join the celebration. A few collided with Mercedes as they ran, probably on purpose, but she was too numb to react.

Then Arnau was by her side, his hand on her shoulder. The touch brought her back to life somewhat, and she raised her head, taking in her surroundings with waking eyes. A few yards away, a few spectators still stood to the side of the improvised finish line, taking photos with their phones and chatting amongst themselves. Mercedes noticed a gaggle of rich white boys, their popped Ralph Lauren collars and clean shorts giving them away as outsiders, as if their exaggerated macho-ness hadn’t broadcasted their discomfort from a mile away. One of them was drinking wine out of a bottle.

With an ironic prayer of thanks to St. Vincent of Saragossa, patron saint of winos everywhere, and her particular motoring patron, St. Frances of Rome, Mercedes rolled her shoulders, and stepped forward. She felt Arnau move forward with her, and she shrugged out of her jacket, tossing it to him without looking. He caught it and stopped in his tracks, watching her as she walked. Maybe it was the way her jeans hugged her curves. Maybe it was the way she strutted as she approached the frat boys. Maybe it was the way she carried the promise of violence in the set of her shoulders. Whatever the reason, Arnau Riera grinned like a wolf.

“Heyyyy, bro, look – I think she likes you!”

Winebro looked blearily around, eventually focusing his eyes (with some effort) on Mercedes.

“Heyyyy!” he said, opening his arms.

His friends cheered.

Mercedes’ eye twitched – a tell, but one that distracted from the way her hand jerked towards a bulge in the waistband of her jeans.

“Give me the wine,” she said.

“What?” As comebacks went, it wasn’t the most original she’d heard.

She’d had a long day. Mercedes pulled the gun out of her jeans in one easy, liquid motion.

“I don’t play games, fuckhead: give me the wine.”

They gave her the wine. They gave her some choice names as well as they ran. She made shooing gestures with the gun, gulping from the bottle all the while.

“Well, I guess we’re in a friendly mood tonight,” Arnau chuckled.

“Still not playing games, you know.”

“Oh no, I got that. Message received: loud and clear.”

She sighed and handed him the bottle, looking at their ride.

“Fuck, Arnau, I really thought we had it this time. I don’t know what went wrong.”

A strange voice spoke up: “Drag.”

Mercedes and Arnau turned.

A young woman stood by the curb. She was dressed in so much black that she’d practically blended into the shadows. Mercedes thought they must be about the same age, but while Mercedes walked these streets with a swaggering bravado that scared off trouble, this woman _looked_ like she ought to be a target. She sure dressed like one. Hell, she dressed like she’d just lost a job interview, Mercedes thought, buttoned-up, but as if she’d stopped giving a fuck. But there _was_ something there that explained why this woman hadn’t been mugged or scared off: something in the way she carried her head, something in her eyes. People might not even recognise it for what it was in the nicer parts of town. But down here? Down here, they knew danger when they saw it.

“I can see why you did the lines of the windshield that way,” said the woman in black. “But look at the angle of the hood and the roof – it’s all wrong.”

Mercedes looked at the car, and the sudden obviousness of it felt like a punch to the gut. She met Arnau’s eyes. He didn’t have her same feel for numbers, but he had better instincts for people. Her brother nodded.

Turning back to the stranger, Mercedes put out her hand. “Mercedes Riera.”

The woman shifted a book she’d been carrying under her left arm and shook Mercedes’ proffered hand. “Mora Garwhal.”

“How the hell do you know so much about car racing?” Mercedes asked, searching the woman’s face.

Mora shrugged, defiant and defensive in equal measure. “I don’t. I just – it’s – it’s just _obvious_. The aerodynamics are almost perfect, but the errors are making it worse than if you’d just driven your grandma’s car.”

Mercedes smirked. “You say that, but you haven’t met my grandma.”

A tight smile flickered across the other woman’s face. “Trust me, I don’t underestimate grandmothers.”

“Huh.” Mercedes looked at the stranger. “You know, I bet you don’t.” She realised she was still holding the stranger’s hand, and she gave it one last firm shake before letting it go. “Mora Garwhal, is it?” She jerked her thumb back at Arnau, who had stepped forward and already had his best, most raffish smoulder on. “This asshole’s my brother, Arnau.”

“ _Encantat,_ _senyorina,”_ Arnau said smoothly.

“Ignore him,” Mercedes sighed.

“Ignore her,” Arnau insisted.

Mercedes gestured towards their car. “Look, I don’t know where you’re from, but we have our sketches back in the garage. My sister Aina does all the bodywork for us. If you can see where we went wrong – well, like fuck am I gonna ignore that. And if you help us, I promise that’s a debt that’ll get paid.”

Mora hesitated, then nodded.

Mercedes and Arnau ushered her into the back seat, then settled themselves in front of the twin steering wheels at the front of the car. As Mercedes adjusted the rearview mirror, she glanced back at their strange passenger.

“So, you ever ridden in a car like this before?”

“No,” said Mora, again with that slight edge of defiance. Mercedes rather thought she liked it.

“Get carsick much?”

“Not important. I need to see how fast this thing goes.”

Mercedes grinned. Mora caught her expression in the mirror. Their eyes met. Slowly, Mora began to grin too.

“Buckle up, Mora Garwhal,” said Mercedes, “I have a feeling we’re going places.”


End file.
